I will bury your memory in the hill just past the chain-link fence, the one where we’d spend hours discussing “R-rated things” and skipping steadfast from our childish remains. It’s okay that you’d rather cut the throat of what used to be my favorite thought to mull over than letting it breathe in the pool of your cerebrum.
Or, now, it is a puddle.
You’ve beaten yourself into the way society wants you to be: humming the tune of burning books and inhaling the charred whimpers. I’ll heed the blame, too, for I was spendthrifty with time and energy trying to hate you (when really, I needed you all along). I’ll just send you a postcard when we’re both caffeine-hunched adults, the complete opposite of how we thought we would turn out to be. Maybe it will release something, anything, to trickle back into the droplet of honesty you have and perhaps your crow’s feet will crinkle.